by Coyle, Matt;
“Do you want to talk to me or play games?”
I looked over at Miranda who pretended she wasn’t listening. “I want to talk.”
An exhale of breath. “If Jim Colton hadn’t been a SEAL, I wouldn’t even be talking to you, much less meeting with you.”
“You were a SEAL?”
“This isn’t about me, Cahill, but I served in the Navy. Wasn’t good enough to be a SEAL. Colton deserved better. Any SEAL would. I’m jammed up until about nine o’clock tonight. We can’t meet here. Meet me at 4838 Sorrento Valley Boulevard at nine fifteen. It’s a friend’s auto body shop. Park in the back. If anybody sees me with you, I’m . . . Just don’t be late.” He hung up.
I wrote the address and time down on a notepad I kept on the counter. I had eight hours to kill before I potentially found something out that could turn the Colton case upside down.
Miranda looked at me over her water bottle. I ripped the page from the notepad and put it in my pocket.
“Time to go, Miranda.” I walked over to her at the butcher block. “Sorry about everything.”
“It’s okay.”
She stood up and I jammed my hand into her sweat top pocket and ripped out her car keys, then took a couple steps back out of her kicking zone. “I need a promise. Take the rest of the day off. Go to a movie and tell Rankin I stayed home all day.”
“Give me the keys.” She stood up from the stool.
“I need you to promise me, Miranda, or I’m borrowing your car for the rest of the day.”
“Rick, give me back my keys.” She took a step toward me.
I backed up into the foyer, then hustled to the front door out of Miranda’s view and opened it. Miranda stayed in the kitchen out of my sight. Shit. She’d called my bluff and now I really had to use her car. I took a step outside, then remembered the gun I’d left on top of the refrigerator. I rushed back into the kitchen. Miranda walked along the kitchen counter in my direction. Hands empty. Her face flushed pink when she saw me. I glanced at the top of the fridge. The gun was still there.
“You win, Rick. This isn’t worth it. Give me my keys, and I’ll leave for the rest of the day.” She glanced at me, then avoided my eyes.
I didn’t trust the sudden change of mind but didn’t want to challenge her on it. I’d test her when she left. I took the gun off the top of the refrigerator and gave her keys to her.
“I’ll follow you out.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She smiled.
“Yes, I do.” I smiled back.
I walked her outside to her car. She moved more fluidly than she had before, and I felt relieved. Hopefully, I hadn’t done any lasting damage. Miranda turned toward me when she reached her car.
“Thanks for lunch.” Her lips curved up into a closed-mouthed smile and her eyes widened. She gave me a hug like we’d been on a date instead of me kidnapping her at gunpoint. We’d only spent a couple hours together. Not long enough for her to form the Stockholm Syndrome. I hugged her back.
All I could think to say was, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Bye.” She got into her car.
I got into mine and punched the garage door opener. The door began its rise just before Miranda backed out of the driveway. I turned on the ignition and rolled the car into the garage. I wanted Miranda or the night shift to think that the car was in the garage when one of them came by to tail me.
I got out of the car and hustled down the street and peeked around the corner. Miranda’s black Camaro was already a quarter mile up the hill and soon left my sight. She looked to be true to her word, but I had a plan if she wasn’t.
I ran back to the garage and pulled out my car. I drove down to the street below mine and parked it in front of a house with no cars in the driveway. Hopefully, Miranda would report to Rankin that I’d parked my car in the garage. When the night shift came by tonight, they’d see lights on inside my house and think I was home while I met with Special Agent Mallon in Sorrento Valley.
And I’d finally learn the truth about one of the mysteries in the Colton case.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PAULIE’S AUTO BODY Repair was located in Sorrento Valley, just a few blocks from the FBI San Diego field office. It sat under an off ramp from Interstate 5 in the middle of a business park, a couple blocks from FBI headquarters. I arrived twenty minutes early and circled the block. I didn’t spot anything suspicious. Just dimly lit office buildings not open for business until tomorrow morning. Special Agent Mallon was still only a voice on the phone. He came across as legit to me, but I couldn’t take any chances. My Ruger .357 Magnum sat in my coat pocket, and I had my conceal carry license in my wallet.
I was out of LJPD’s jurisdiction and wasn’t concerned about a violent “misunderstanding.” At least not with them. I’d still be wary tonight until I saw an FBI badge and official ID.
Paulie’s had a fenced-in parking lot on its left side that swung around to the back. I pulled my Mustang slowly into the parking lot and parked in an empty spot in the back. The only other cars in the lot were a rusting pickup in the far corner, a late model Lexus with a crushed front fender, a black Range Rover with tinted windows that didn’t look like it needed any work done, and a van with Paulie’s Auto Body Repair stenciled across its side parked two slots away from me.
I exited my car and scanned the parking lot. No movement. I waited. A minute later a metallic rattle snapped my head to a corrugated steel door in the middle of the back wall. Someone inside was cranking it open. I slid my hand into my coat pocket and felt the handle of the Ruger. More reflex than conscious movement. Dim light crept out of the door with each pull of the chain lifting the door. Not enough to get a good look at the figure that stood at the edge of the opening when the door finally raised all the way up. My eyes battled a spotlight mounted above the door pointed toward the parking lot. All I could make out was the outline of a man. A large man.
“Rick Cahill?” The voice on the phone. “It’s Special Agent Mallon. Is that you?”
I released my grip on the gun. “Yes.”
I took a step forward. Footsteps quick behind me. I turned too late and a prick stung the back of my neck. I spun around. The night dimmed. My head kept spinning. Then everything stopped.
* * *
Dark. Metallic whiff of solvent tickled my nostrils. I opened my eyes. Blurry. An outline of a man. Tall. Wide. Dangerous. The image slowly came into view. Black. Everything from boots to gloves to ski mask. A canvas bag lay on a table in front of the man. I didn’t want to find out what was in the bag. I jerked my legs to run, but couldn’t move. My arms, the same. I was tied to a chair.
“You’re not going anywhere, pal.” The voice came out of the ski-masked man. It sounded like the voice on the phone, but different. Raw. Venemous. Malevolent.
“You must have me mistaken for someone else. I’m here to see Special Agent Mallon from the FBI.”
I knew there was no Agent Mallon, or if there was, he hadn’t been the man I’d spoken to on the phone. I talked now to see if I could get back any information that could help me. It was a Hail Mary, but all I had. There was some hope of survival, however. The man wore a mask, meaning he didn’t want me to be able to identify him. Meaning he didn’t plan to kill me.
At least, not yet.
“Why did you go to the FBI today?”
“To try to get some information about a case I’m working on.”
The man in black looked at something over my shoulder. Possibly the person who stuck the needle in my neck when I arrived. Then he punched me in the solar plexus, and all the air spat out of my lungs. I gasped, fighting for air. I tried to pull some oxygen back into my lungs. I finally grabbed enough to breathe.
“Why did you go to the FBI today?”
My cases were my clients’ business and mine. Nobody else’s. But I couldn’t breathe without air in my lungs. And I thought Brianne would understand.
“I’m investigating a suspicious death. The victim called the FBI and talked
to someone for seventeen minutes a few days before he died. I’m trying to find out who he spoke with and what about.” I twisted my head over my shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the other man.
A fist exploded in my gut and all the precious air I’d saved whoomped out of me.
“Why did you go to the FBI today?”
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t escape.
Finally, I sucked in enough air to speak. I kept my eyes pinned on Ski Mask. This time I’d at least see the punch coming and tighten my abs. Maybe that would save me one gulp of air. “Look, I’m telling you the truth. Ask me something specific, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
I braced for Ski Mask’s punch. It didn’t come. I could see his eyes staring at me through the mask’s slits. Blue eyes full of evil. He picked up the canvas bag off the table and my breath left me on its own. I braced for brass knuckles, pliers, a blowtorch. He pulled out a plastic water pitcher and a towel. Nothing else. He tossed the pitcher and the towel over my head and I heard someone catch them, then the sound of water from a tap filling the pitcher. The partner who didn’t want to be seen even in a ski mask or heard at all.
Someone I knew or had seen or heard speak before? Maybe.
Ski Mask shook the canvas bag upside down to show me nothing else was in it. Then he shoved the bag over my head. I tried to calm my breathing. I figured I’d need as much air as possible. Suddenly my head fell backwards and changed positions with my feet. Ski Mask had tilted my chair back like an astronaut ready for blastoff on a trip I didn’t want to take.
“Just tell me what you want to know!” Futile, but it was all I had.
Someone whipped the bag off my head, and for a second, I thought I’d gotten a reprieve. Then Ski Mask put the towel over my face. It was soaked and water started to drip into my swollen nose. Hands grabbed my head from behind and held it in place so I couldn’t shake off the towel. I opened my mouth wide to breathe but just sucked in more water. Then someone poured water over the towel. I couldn’t breathe and tried to hold my breath but there was no air to hold. My heart pounded a thousand miles an hour. I gasped and water rushed into my mouth in the place of air. Panic. I squirmed against the ropes tying me to the chair, but strong hands held me down. Water filled my nasal passages.
No air. No escape.
Suddenly someone whipped off the towel and pushed the chair upright so I was vertical. I coughed out water and gasped for air. My throat made noises I’d never heard before and my whole body shook.
“Why did you go to the FBI today?”
I caught my breath and my heartbeat regulated. I already told the truth. What did I have left?
“I told you! I wanted to find out who Jim Colton talked to before he died.”
Ski Mask grabbed my chair and tilted it back.
“I’m telling you the truth!”
He put the towel over my face and the water started again. Terror.
They whipped me back upright just when I thought I’d drown again. I fought the battle for air.
“What did Special Agent in Charge Richmond tell you?”
I spat out everything I could remember from my unpleasant conversation with Richmond. Verbatim.
The chair went back and the water came down again.
When it was over, “Tell us what Brianne knows.”
“What do you mean? Knows about what?”
The chair went back. The towel. The water.
Ski Mask asked me the same questions again and again and water-boarded me again and again.
After the sixth or seventh time, Ski Mask said, “He doesn’t know anything.”
He shoved the canvas bag over my face. My body shook. Now from the November chill in the warehouse against my soaked clothes and skin.
Faint footsteps walking away. Then a hushed conversation. The whispers didn’t reveal a voice I recognized and I could only make out an occasional word: “Here.” “I can’t be here when . . .” “. . . the van . . . the beach . . . salt water.”
Then I heard the metal door being cranked open. Ski Mask’s voice, “Craigslist when it’s done.”
“Help!” I shouted as loud as I could through the canvas sack. A punch to my stomach stole the air from my shout.
A car door slammed shut, then another right on top of it. Or maybe just the first’s one’s echo. A car engine hummed. Could they both be leaving?
The sack was ripped off my head. Ski Mask stared down at me then punched me in the stomach. I tried to breathe. He punched me again. I gasped for air and he stuffed the sack in my mouth. I tried to inhale through my broken nose and nothing came through. Ski Mask grabbed a rag off a workbench and tied it around my head to secure the bag in my mouth. I inhaled with chest and shoulders and all I could get was a tiny thread of air navigating my bent nose. I hyperventilated. Not enough air was getting through. I was going to suffocate in this chair after almost drowning for the last thirty minutes.
Ski Mask walked outside, and I heard a van door slide open. He came back in with a five-gallon water jug and a five-gallon plastic bucket. The jug was full of water. He set the jug and bucket down next to me. I fought harder for air and rocked the chair back and forth. Ski Mask laughed and let me rock until the chair fell over onto its side on the concrete floor. Now what could I do?
Ski Mask pulled a syringe out of his pocket. He uncapped it and stuck the needle into my neck at the base of my skull. Just like the silent partner had when he snuck up behind me in the parking lot. Panic. Spinning. The night fell on me.
“Just go to sleep, bub. It’ll make it easier for both of us.”
The last thing I remembered was Ski Mask pouring water from the jug into the plastic bucket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SALT. NO AIR. Calm.
Pressure on my chest. Again and again. No air. Panic. Salt water gushing up my throat. I coughed and vomited out the sea. More coughs. More water. I sucked in a wedge of oxygen. Coughed and gasped.
And breathed.
I opened my eyes expecting to see the black ski mask above me. Instead I saw a drop of blood fall from a yellow halo and splash down on my left eyeball. I blinked and someone grabbed me under my arms from behind and sat me upright. The air came easier now, in long deep woofs. Two snips and my hands were free from their bounds. The hands disappeared and Miranda stepped from behind me. Blood trickled down her forehead from a gash along her hairline, giving her pink streaked hair like an alt-band groupie. Her right eye looked like a razor-slit plum. Her face, the color of the cement floor. She smiled, then her mouth went slack. Her knees buckled and she sat down hard and her back, then head, slammed against the cement.
I scrambled to my feet and lurched toward Miranda. Too late to soften her landing. I felt for the carotid artery in her neck with my finger and hovered my cheek over her mouth. Breath on my cheek. She was alive.
I whirled around expecting a charge from Ski Mask, but the garage was empty. Miranda must have somehow fought him off by herself.
“Miranda. Miranda. Wake up.” My voice raspy. My throat sore. I gently pushed open her left eyelid with my finger. White. The bottom of her iris just visible at the top of the eye socket. I put my hand under her head and felt for a lump. There was a small soft one on the lower part of her skull, probably from landing on the cement. She needed medical help.
Fast.
A 911 call would take time and an explanation. It might take the paramedics ten or fifteen minutes to arrive. Scripps Memorial Hospital was a five-minute drive from the auto body shop. I’d beat the paramedics under any scenarios. Besides, a 911 call would bring the police. A crime had been committed and they’d investigate. I’d either have to lie or tell the cops about the fake FBI agent and the assault on me. That would get the FBI involved and probably LJPD as I had been investigating the death of one of their own. That would bring Moretti, who might have been behind the attack tonight.
He could have even been the silent partner.
I wrapped
my arms under Miranda’s armpits from behind and lifted her up to a standing position. Except she couldn’t stand. One hundred forty pounds of dead weight. I backpedaled her to a Mercedes CLS550 awaiting a paint job. Her heels dragged along the cement like a dead person’s. No shoes. She’d probably kicked off her flip-flops to use her best weapons when she battled Ski Mask.
And saved my life.
The cement scraped at her heels. A fireman’s hold over my shoulder would put her head below her heart and pump blood into her injured areas. I bent my knees and swooped under her like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. When I straightened up I caught a glimpse of something black in the shadow of the wheel well of the Mercedes. No time to check what it was. Her head lolled back like a broken puppet’s. I scrambled to my car and was able to open the passenger door with my hand under her knees. I slid her into the seat as gently as I could and buckled the seat belt.
I ran around the car, jumped in, and gunned it out of the parking lot. The Paulie’s Auto Body van was gone. So was the Range Rover. No doubt used by Ski Mask in his escape. I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and punched Brianne’s number. No answer. Shit. I had to warn her about Ski Mask and his partner. They’d asked me what she knew. They’d go after her next.
If they hadn’t already gotten her.
I hit the number again. No answer. Again. And again. And again.
Finally, a click.
“We weren’t going to talk on the phone anymore. Remember?” Angry.
“Get out of your house now. Go stay with a friend. Or at a hotel. Anywhere. Just make sure you park the Mustang in a garage out of sight.”
“Why? What’s going on? What’s wrong with your voice?” Panic. “You’re scaring me.”
“Do what I say and you’ll be fine, but go now. I’ll call you back soon. Pick up when I call.”
“Rick?”
“Go. Now!” I hung up.
I blew down Sorrento Valley Boulevard and made a quick jog onto a side street that dumped me on I-5 South. I glanced at Miranda. Chin on chest, she would have flopped onto the dashboard if she weren’t strapped in by her seat belt.